There are times when he lauds these precious moments wrapped in solitude. Sitting at a nearby café joint, sipping on Mochas, fidgeting with the pen, desperately longing for the flow to write and trying in vain to lose his new found avatar. Sometimes it’s good to lose the self, over music, over torn pages of the diary, over childhood sweethearts, aloof from the repetitive dark comedies of life.
…And as the tired sun bled, across the western sky, twilight appears, and then there is the light again, at the end of the tunnel…
He doesn’t cry over spilled milk anymore, but old habits do die hard. Especially when he tries to retrace those footsteps that fell on the virgin beaches more than a decade ago. People say, nothing heals like time does. Yes, the healing is slow and pain staking, but then when you have heaped mountains of moss over the rolling stone, when you have come undone, sang all the love songs, stopped looking at the rear view mirror, to do you cut open the wounds again? Is it hard enough to rupture the first deepest cut? How do you lose your self once again?
Time traveling is exciting, he read it in books, seen it in movies, dreamt about it. But hell, why is he trying to do that? Going back through the concrete jungles, through the rippling siphons of time, streaking past pink moons, sands on foreheads, Eskimo kisses and those heart splitting good byes! Those lonesome starry nights, the Mary-Jane shadows growing shorter again! Time and memories are blurred and dabbled mirthlessly as he traverses through the road less travelled to find his guiding star crying at the edge of a cliff. This search means so much to him. It’s almost like digging up his own grave to in a desperate hope of uncovering a few sparks of life and light from the eternal darkness. There is a feeling of a magic so beautiful, that it feels good to dream again. The sparks are there yet again in the star studded sky, so crystal clear that he can see light years when he peeps into the black of her eyes. He just feels lost again, without much of an effort.
…Those batting eyelids make him want to write poetries again,
Hold her hand, kiss and save the last dance for her…
This guiding star of his had once made him stronger. Gave him roots when he was listless and lent those beautiful wings to fly into the merciful depths of the oblivion, and come back again rejuvenated with the nectar of invincibility. Second chances are hard to get, forgiveness is even harder. Make a wish morning angel, make a promise, cross your heart, because he had already done that. Give him that million dollar smile; it has been the best narcotic he has ever tasted. An addict for her love! Its dawn again, fresh and vibrant as the sleepy morning sun. Let him taste the moonshine and the tears, let him follow this little girl along the deserted school corridors, let him stamp the puddles of water again; let him come home again, with a new song in his heart. Can he turn the tide now? He can afford to lose himself once again, this time never to rise again, but how can he lose the first rays of the sun that soak his face every fine sunny morning? It feels like she’s the time traveler’s wife.